by Gerard Klein
Embarrassed, he emptied the pockets of his combat uniform and accepted a sort of tunic which she offered him.
When on Mars, breathe like a Martian . . .
The ship was pulling alongside an aerial jetty now. Corson felt really silly in his new outfit. The craft came to a dead stop.
“Have you an incinerator?”
“A what?”
He bit his lip. "Ah . . . Something which gets rid of refuse.”
“An eraser? Well, of course."
She showed him how the device worked. He rolled his uniform into a ball and tossed it in. The loose-fitting clothes he had put on would adequately hide his gun, under his left armpit. He was almost certain she had spotted the weapon, but that she had no idea of its purpose. The uniform vanished before his eyes.
He went straight to the door, which opened for him. On the point of leaving, he wanted to say something, but words would not come. He made a vague gesture with one hand. For the moment, his mind Was dominated by a single obsession.
He needed somewhere quiet to think out how he could get the hell away from Uria—fast
The landing stage was soft under his boots—correction: under his sandals, now. A pang of alarm struck him as he looked around. He could have stayed longer with Floria, picked up a lot more information ... As far as he could tell, his haste to get away stemmed from an ancient soldier’s reflex: never stay longer than you have to in a temporary hideout. Keep moving, always keep on the move!
So his present behavior was still conditioned by a war over a millennium old, which he had resigned from the night before. But he was aware of something else, too. Floria was young, lovely, and very likely available. He himself came from an epoch of total war, where practically every ounce of human energy was devoted to combat or to the industrial effort which made fighting possible. He was suddenly exposed here to the possibilities of a world where individual happiness appeared to be the only law. The contrast was too much for him. He had left the ship because in Floria’s company he suspected he would not be able to think straight.
He reached the end of the landing stage and studied with mistrust narrow gangways fitted with handrails, steeply slanting ramps. He was worried that he might draw attention to himself by his nervousness, but he soon realized that nobody was likely to notice. In his universe, a stranger was instantly assumed to be a spy even though it
was absurd to imagine that a Urian would risk entering a city held by humans. A spy scare had an additional purpose apart from maintaining security. It kept people’s minds busy. He was cynical enough to recognize the fact.
These inhabitants of Dyoto displayed a lot of courage. They leaped from one ramp to another even if they were twenty or thirty meters away. Corson thought for a moment that they must have miniaturized antigrav units hidden in their clothes, but soon realized he was wrong. At his own first attempt he jumped from a height of three meters, landed with his knees bent, and nearly fell over. He had expected a much more violent impact. Emboldened, he tried a dive of twelve meters or so, and saw coming straight toward him a tiny aircar. The machine had to swerve to avoid him and its pilot turned a face pale with rage or fright. He told himself he must have broken a traffic regulation. He moved on quickly, afraid of finding some sort of patrolman at his heels.
Most of the time the people around him seemed not to be heading anywhere special. They spun and wheeled like insects, darted down three stories, let themselves be swept up by invisible air currents which set them down six levels higher, chatted for a moment with an acquaintance, and continued on their senseless way. From time to time somebody entered one of the buildings that formed the skeleton of the city.
Loneliness overcame Corson some three hours later. He was hungry and he felt tired. His initial excitement had subsided. He had assumed he would locate, without difficulty, a public restaurant or a dormitory, or the two combined, such as existed on all planets occupied by the Solar Powers for the benefit of soldiers and travelers, but he had failed to spot one. He dared not question any of the passers-by. Eventually he decided to enter one of the larger buildings. Beyond its door there was a vast hall. Things were laid out on immense counters. Thousands of people were milling around and helping themselves.
Was it theft to take something from here? Theft was severely punished by the Solar Powers and Corson had been strongly conditioned against it. A society at war could not tolerate such antisocial tendencies. When he found an array of foodstuffs, he stopped worrying. He selected items that resembled what Floria had prepared for him, stuffed them in his pockets, rather expecting to hear an alarm go off, and beat a retreat toward the entrance by a devious route, taking care not to follow for a second time the aisles he had used on his way in.
At the moment when he was about to cross the threshold, a voice made him jump. It was deep, pleasantly inflected, rather friendly. “Haven’t you forgotten something, sir?”
Corson looked about him. Nothing!
"Sir?” the bodiless voice persisted. “Mister—?”
“My name’s Corson,” he muttered. “George Corson.” There was no point in concealing his name on a world where it would mean nothing to anybody.
“Perhaps I have overlooked some formality,” he admitted. “You see, I’m a stranger here. Who are you?”
The most amazing thing was that the people passing by seemed not to hear the voice.
“The accountant for this establishment. Perhaps you wish to speak to the manager?”
By now he had worked out where the voice was coming from: a point in midair, about shoulder height and a meter away.
“I’ve broken a regulation?” Corson said. “I suppose you’ll have me arrested, then.”
“Sir, no credit account has been opened in the name of Corson. If I' m not mistaken, this is the first time you have visited our premises. That is why I took the liberty of addressing you. I trust you will not hold that against me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any credit, no. Naturally, I can return what I’ve taken—”
“But why, Mr. Corson? You can pay in cash if you like. We accept currency from any recognized world.”
Corson started. “Would you say that again?”
“We accept money from any recognized world. Any type of currency certificate will settle the matter.”
Dumbfounded, Corson said, “Money? I don’t have any money!” The word burned his mouth. Money for him was an archaic concept, and rather a disgusting one. He knew, as everyone did, that it had been used—long before the war—as a medium of exchange on Earth, but he had never seen the stuff. The army had always provided everything he needed. He had practically never felt the urge to acquire anything other than what he was allotted. He had been led like all his contemporaries to regard money as an obsolete custom, barbaric in fact, inconceivable in an advanced society. It had never for a moment crossed his mind that he would need money when he left Floria’s ship.
“I—uh ...” He cleared his throat. “I could maybe work in exchange for what I’ve taken?”
“Nobody works for money, Mr. Corson. Not on this planet, at least.”
“But what about you?” Corson said incredulously.
“I am a machine, Mr. Corson. Let me suggest a way out of this. While waiting for your credit to be established, could you perhaps name a person who would serve as your guarantor?”
“I only know one person here,” Corson said. “Floria Van Nelle.” “That will suit admirably, Mr. Corson. Forgive me for troubling you. We hope to see you again.”
The voice fell silent. Corson shrugged, annoyed at feeling so upset. What would Floria think when she found that he had embezzled credit from her? Well, that had been a stroke of bad luck. But that voice was what had really shaken him. Was the “accountant” omnipresent here, able to speak simultaneously with a thousand customers, advise them, inform them, tell them off? Were invisible eyes spying on him all the time, hidden as it were by crannies in the air?
He shrugged again. A
t any rate it seemed that he was free to go.
He located a fairly quiet spot and opened one of the cans. Once again his soldier’s reflexes were at work. While eating he attempted to decide on a course of action. But try as he would he could not picture a future for himself.
The problem of money, to start with. Without money, it would be hard for him to leave Uria. Interstellar trips must certainly be expensive. To the time trap he was in had now been added a space trap. Unless, within six months, he found a way to earn some money.
Not by working, since nobody worked for money here. The more he pondered, the tougher the problem seemed. There was nothing he knew how to do which was likely to interest the people of Uria. Worse, in their eyes he was a kind of cripple. The men and women strolling along the avenues of Dyoto could foresee events about to happen in their lives. He did not share that talent, and had every reason to think he never would. The appearance of this power raised several questions which he reviewed for a moment. Was it due to a mutation, suddenly cropping out and spreading rapidly among the human species? Or was it a latent power which could be developed with special training?
The power implied, anyhow, that in his dealings with the human population here he could never take anyone by surprise. With one exception.
He knew the distant future of the planet.
In six months, a swarm of Monsters would cheerfully and ferociously launch an attack on Dyoto, hunting their victims through a maze of space and time. Perhaps their new talent would enable the humans to enjoy a short reprieve. But nothing more.
It was a good bargaining point. He could warn the central authorities of this planet, advise a total evacuation, or try to perfect the techniques for dealing with Monsters which the Solar Powers had been studying. That was a two-edged sword, though. The Urians might simply decide to hang him.
He threw the empty food packs overside and watched them fall. Nothing slowed their descent. The antigrav field must affect only human beings. Possibly the necessary orders were drawn directly and subconsciously from the nervous system. He was unable to imagine how that might be done.
He rose and started to wander about again. Mission: find the Spaceport, the starship launch station, or the transmatter terminal, and get away, using force if need be. If he were arrested, he could always talk about what he knew.
The layout of the city was becoming clear to him, although it Struck him as extraordinarily haphazard. The military bases of his own day had always been built to the same design. Certain routes were reserved for vehicles, others for pedestrians. Not here. The ability to foresee events—to cog, as Floria had called it—must have influenced the highway code. He recalled the accident he had barely escaped a few hours earlier. That driver had not foreseen Corson getting in his way. Then, in order to cog something, the Urians must have to make an act of will, perhaps focus a kind of inward sight. Or could it be that the power was less well developed in some people?
He tried to concentrate and imagine something that was about to happen. A passer-by: he might carry straight on, turn, go up or down. Corson decided he was going to turn. The man kept on his way. He tried the test again, failed again.
Again. Again.
Perhaps he was failing too often? Perhaps some block in his nervous system was causing him always to make a wrong choice? Perhaps!
Vague recollections of long-ago experiences rose to his mind, premonitions, cruelly clear, which had come true. Like lightning flashes which, at a key moment during battle, had lit up the field of his awareness. Or in the silence of utter exhaustion. Nothing calculated or reasoned out. Just incidents such as one forgot again at once, dismissed as coincidental.
He had always had the reputation of being a lucky bastard. The fact that he was still alive seemed to confirm what his comrades— dead, all dead—laughingly used to say. Had luck become a factor you could measure, here on Uria?
A light floater halted level with him and by reflex he tensed. Muscles taut, knees flexed, he reached toward his armpit. But he did not draw his gun. The machine contained only one passenger, a girl. Empty-handed. Dark. Young and pretty. She was smiling. She must have stopped to talk to him. He had no idea who she might be.
He straightened and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The girl beckoned to him.
“George Corson, isn’t it? Then come along.”
The rim of the floater deformed like cloth, or plastic under a heat beam, to let him board.
“Who are you? How did you know where to find me?”
“My name is Antonella,” she said. “And Floria Van Nelle told me about you. I wanted to meet you.”
He hesitated.
"I know you’re going to get in, George. So let’s not waste time.” He almost turned on his heel. Could one cheat the precog power? But she was right: he did want to get aboard. He had had enough of being alone, and needed to talk to someone. He would have time later to continue his experiments. He climbed into the machine.
“Welcome to Uria, Mr. Corson,” Antonella said with a touch of formality. “I am instructed to greet and guide you.”
“An official assignment?”
“If you like. But I take great personal pleasure in it.”
The floater had gathered speed and was flying off without the girl seeming to pay attention. She smiled; her teeth were magnificent.
“Where are we going?”
“How about a trip along the seashore?”
"You’re not taking me anywhere in particular, then?”
"I won’t take you anywhere you don’t want to go.”
“Fair enough,” Corson said, sitting down on a cushioned bench. And, as they were leaving Dyoto behind:
“You’re not scared. Floria must have told you everything about
“She told us you were a bit rough with her. She doesn’t yet know whether to hold it against you or not. I think what annoyed her most was your walking off and just dumping her. It’s very insulting.”
She smiled again and he relaxed. Without being able to say why, he felt he could trust this girl. If it was really her duty to make strangers welcome, she had plainly been selected with great care.
He turned his head and saw for the second time the enormous pyramidal mushroom of Dyoto, seeming to balance on the two glittering columns of the twin vertical river. The sea, in great slow heaves that indicated a vast ocean beyond, came to gnaw at an endless beach. The sky was almost empty. A faint iridescence, like the ill-defined cloud above a waterfall, surrounded the summit of the city.
“What do you want to know about me?” he asked suddenly.
“About your past, nothing, Mr. Corson,” she answered. “It’s your future which concerns us.”
“Why?”
“You honestly don’t know?”
He shut his eyes for a moment. “No. I don't know anything about my future.”
“I see.” A pause. “Would you like some smoke?”
She was offering him an oval case. Curious, he took from it a cigarette-like tube, set it to his lips, and sucked, expecting it to light of its own accord. But nothing happened. Antonella held an igniter toward him, and at the moment when it uttered its flame a brief and very bright light dazzled him.
“What are you planning to do?” the girl asked in a soft voice.
He passed his hand across his eyes and filled his lungs with smoke. Amazing! This was genuine tobacco—if he hadn’t forgotten what that tasted like after smoking the sad dried seaweed which had taken its place in a world at war.
“Get off this planet,” he said impulsively, and at once bit his lip, too late. A luminous spot was floating before his eyes as though the brilliant reflection the metal shell of the igniter had flashed onto his retinas had stamped them with a tiny and indecipherable design. He suddenly caught on and crushed the cigarette out against the side of the vessel. He pressed his fingers on his eyelids so hard that he saw rockets, whole salvoes of them, and nova stars. His right hand slid toward his gun. That flash from the igniter ha
d not just been a reflection. Its hypnotic effect, probably combined with a drug in the cigarette, had been intended to make him talk. So much for his combat reflexes! They must have been dulled by the placidity of Dyoto. Still, his training had made him able to resist attacks on this level.
“You’re very tough, Mr. Corson,” Antonella said in a calm tone. “But I doubt whether you’re tough enough to get off this world.” “Why didn’t you cog that your little trick would fail?” He heard his voice harsh with anger.
“Who said it had failed?” She was smiling as pleasantly as when she invited him on board.
“All I said was that I plan to quit this planet. Is that all you wanted to know?”
“Maybe. Now we’re sure it really is your intention.’'
“And are you going to try and stop me?”
“I don’t see how we can. You’re armed and dangerous. We merely wish to advise against it.”
“In my own interests, of course.”
“Of course.”
The floater was losing height and speed. Above a small stream it halted, sank down, landed gently on sand. Its rim subsided like melting wax. Antonella jumped to the ground and stretched herself, sketching a dance step.
“Romantic here, isn’t it?” she said, picking up a polyhedral shell that might have belonged to a sea urchin. An alien sea urchin, Corson reminded himself. After weighing it in her hand for a moment, she tossed it into the waves which were washing around her bare feet.
“So you don’t like this world?”
Corson shrugged. “It’s a little decadent for my taste. Too mysterious beneath its placid surface.”
“I imagine you prefer war, violence, plenty of action. Maybe you’ll find some of that if you stay, though.”
“Love and war?” he said sarcastically, recalling what he had said to Floria.
“Love? Why not?”
She had lowered her lashes a trifle and appeared to be waiting for something, her lips apart. Corson clenched his fists. He could not remember ever having seen such a sexy woman, not even at an army rest center. He forgot his past completely and took her in his arms.
